Outside, the storm was raging, but the autopsy suite within the heart of the morgue was silent. John had almost forgotten about the weather when the unmistakable sound of a lightning strike penetrated the thick walls, rattling glass containers in nearby cupboards. The room was plunged into darkness. Seconds later, the emergency generators kicked in and the lights flickered on.

Everything under control.

John continued with the autopsy. He placed a rubber block under the cadaver's neck, then positioned the scalpel for the Y incision, beginning at the right shoulder, below the collarbone. One inch into the cut the dead body let out a long sigh.

The scalpel slipped from John's fingers, clattering to the stainless steel exam table. He stared at the dead man's face, searching for signs of life.

A decaying body rapidly formed gas, and it wasn't unusual for a dead person to appear to exhale. Some bodies even moved as the gas shifted around looking for an escape route.

"Son of a bitch." John let out a nervous laugh.

He retrieved the scalpel and poised his hand to continue with the incision. He was shaking. "Shit. What a fucking baby. Calm down. It was just a little gas, that's all:"

Too late, he remembered the Dictaphone. With his slipper-covered foot, he shut it off with the remote switch, then stood there, breathing hard. The down-draft fan was humming.

He tossed the scalpel on the instrument tray, then picked up the dead man's wrist and felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

He felt the carotid artery in the neck.

Nothing.

He pulled out a miniature flashlight and checked the pupils.

No reaction. No reflex. No eye movement.

He turned the head from side to side.

"Some skin discoloration." Due to lack of circulation-a fairly significant sign of death. Lips were purple. Fingers and nails, purple.